


Genma and the Art of Senbon Spitting

by ekourege



Series: Konoha Nin and Their Lesser Known Hobbies [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: -not related to the fic im just bitter, Allusions to prejudice, Character Study, Conflict & Death, Did Genma really deserve this? no., Did I do it anyway? Yes., Discussions of Political Topography, Gen, Genma is a farm boy, Genma is a surly bastard but it's ok, Genma is an early riser, Graphic descriptions of Literal Murder, Grief, Home Improvement, Hurt/Comfort, It's all bc of Gai, Konoha is Not All That Benevolent if you really think about it, Loss, Might Dai is a Good Dad, Might Gai is a Good Friend, Mourning, Our man really just wanna protect the people he loves, The boys work hard and become good friends, Third Shinobi War, True to Naruto fashion, War, [sad backstory hour intensifies], bc I said so, fuck yall Gai is considerate as fuck, it doesn't go well, it really do be like tht yall, not one of these bastards can have good childhoods and thts the tea, petition to overthrow kishimoto and rewrite naruto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-15 00:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16051592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekourege/pseuds/ekourege
Summary: Genma’s habit of chewing on senbon started early, from the first time his father stuck a lollipop stick into his mouth, to the time when he joined the academy and hay turned to steel.It was only later that he learned to weaponize it.





	Genma and the Art of Senbon Spitting

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is the third (and probably final) installment of this series! It centers around Genma Shiranui, obviously. However, this installment is the odd one out for this series, as it’s less about the talent and more about developing Genma as a character and well…………. Making him a fully fleshed out (if slightly AU) character. It be like that sometimes.
> 
> If you’re reading this part first, don’t worry! The parts of this series are only really vaguely connected by concept, so these can be read as standalones. If you want to read the first parts of the series, however, the titles of the first and second parts are below:
> 
> 1) Kakashi's an Enabler, or It's Kakashi's Birthday  
> 2) Minato is a connoisseur of FINE ART, or Minato can draw.
> 
> Also, this is _so fucking long_
> 
> never again will I be able to write a 4k one-shot. Those days are long gone.
> 
> Anyway, I hope yall enjoy this mess. I don’t really consider myself a Genma stan but I do love the jounin of konoha with all my dumb gay heart.

Though Konoha was _technically_ a village under the control of Fire Country and the Fire daimyo, it acted more like an independent city-state, and its conquests were those of the small villages surrounding its stark walls. The area that could be considered “Konoha” was really quite a bit larger than one would think.

To those who grasped even a fraction of the scope of Konoha’s power—it was a ninja village, after all—this fact made quite a bit of sense. Konoha (and the other main ninja villages, for that matter) had more military might than the main governments of the elemental nations themselves, and if they so desired, stood a reasonably high chance of successfully taking over their entire country.

But that was the trouble: conquering and ruling an entire country was different than leading a relatively tiny military city-state. Add in the assortment of treatises and political red tape binding the hidden villages, and that left them as relatively restrained, technically-could-be-countries-on-their-own, powerhouse townships.

The village’s claims were not official, of course. The area surrounding Konoha’s walls was still Fire Country territory, even if only on paper. 

On said paper, the wide stretches of dense trees and winding rivers, along with small villages and fertile farmland were not governed under the same laws that governed Konoha proper. In the books, the official documents, in all the records, Konoha had simply taken it upon themselves to keep the surrounding area under their protection, to guard it as if it were the area within Konoha's own walls.

On paper. 

In reality, the hidden village, with all its might and prowess, had taken the surrounding forest as its own. The ninja village would grant full protection to any village within its grasp, in return for trade deals and a large cut of the village’s exports.

Along with that grant came the benefits of being in a ninja village, even though most weren’t actually in Konoha, nor were most residents of the hidden village itself. They were granted citizenship, the ability to enroll their civilian children in the ninja academy, as well as access to the Konoha General Hospital.

Such were the circumstances of Shiranui Genma. 

Mr. and Mrs. Shiranui were from one such village—if it could even be called that, it was more akin to a couple farms and a few local businesses—situated just outside of Konoha's walls, nestled in between dense groves of forest, even though much of it had been cleared to make room for their crops. The two had been friends nearly from birth, their families had been close and as much, they had grown up together. So, when the two had married, there had been no surprise, only pleased nods from the neighbors and a few exasperated grumbles of “it’s about time”.

As they had left childhood behind and grew into adulthood, the couple had lost their parents to disease and old age and thereby inherited the land their parents had cultivated. Being married, they ended up combining their property together, tending to the land and only keeping what they needed; the rest of that year’s harvest was sold in Konoha or among the local village markets. By the next season, Mrs. Shiranui had been expecting a child.

To some they were “leeches”, thriving off Konoha’s goodwill and land. To others, they lived an “idyllic” life, perfect in its simplicity and almost wretchedly upright circumstances. To most, they’d be “standard” or “boring.” They didn’t lead terribly riveting lives, nor were they in exceptional poverty and in dire need of saving. The two lead a perfectly standard life and were perfectly content with that.

However, regardless of what others thought, Mrs. Shiranui still went to Konoha’s General hospital when she went into labor and gave birth to a son. And, because of the hospital where he was born, there could be no dispute about his citizenship, regardless of where he began to reside directly after.

And thus, Genma Shiranui came into existence, born to a perfectly average family in an average village that could only technically be considered a part of Konoha.

* * *

“He has your eyes.” Genma’s father would say to his mother, a twinkle in his own. It was a common exchange between the two of them, now that their darling boy had grown a little from a pink, wailing infant into a chubby toddler.

“Yes, well, he has your face!” she would retort without fail. The toddler could normally be seen with a serious, nearly lazy expression on his childish face, as though he would rather watch the world whirl around him from afar than really take any part in it. A perfect reflection of the lax set to his father's face.

Genma’s father would chuckle, affectionately ruffling his child’s hair before turning away and bumbling off, presumably to go attend to whatever chores the farm had bestowed upon him for that day. It was just him and his wife who tended to the farm, for now, and there was no time to waste if he wanted to get it all done in time.

This time, however, something slightly different occurred.

As the couple went back and forth, listing off the traits they found of each other in Genma, his father did something slightly different, a nearly Cheshire grin on his face.

Genma’s father had a bad habit of chewing on sticks, whether it be straw, his pipe, or even stick candy from Konoha’s market district. 

He’d pick up something in the mornings, and naturally, continue to gnaw on it throughout the day. It wasn't hurting anyone and was a comfort when times were tough, so the man never bothered to try and curb the habit.

This time, he’d been rolling a lollipop stick between his teeth. His wife spoke up, sighing fondly as she watched Genma fiddle with a set of wooden blocks and a doll, stacking the blocks up and then using the doll to knock them down. 

“He’s just like you… even when playing, he’s got that same lazy expression,” she says.

“Well,” began Katsuo, stepping forward and crouching down beside the toddler. He plonked the lollipop in the toddler’s mouth, grinning as the child began to chew on it. “Like father like son, I reckon.”

Genma’s mother laughed as she herself chewed on her own pipe. 

“Yes, just like his father.” 

Katsuo was quick to console her. “Oh, but, you know he’s like you too, dear. He has your nose and your ears!” 

“Ah, but he has your jaw…”

Genma just continued to gnaw on the stick.

* * *

Time had begun to whittle away. Genma has gone from a chubby-cheeked, burbling toddler to a young boy; healthy, strong, and bursting with energy.

He’s old enough to help tend to their family’s farm by that point, spending his days making running the farm a smoother process than it would've been otherwise. When not chipping away at his daily chore list, the child could be found learning how to read and write or playing with his straw dolls and small, wooden trinkets; spinning tops and slingshots and other assorted hand-crafted baubles. Sometimes he angers his parents with them, as he tends to leave them scattered about the floors of their home, leading the adults to step on them. Plenty of his toys have broken that way, and he’s received his fair share of scoldings about cleanliness.

Genma rises with his parents, the dawn sun’s rays pulling them from their beds and towards their morning routines—chores, chores, and more chores—at the exact same times every morning. The day doesn’t wait for anyone, and though they have an extra set of hands now, there’s still much work to be done. Genma helps his parents tend to their wheat and squash crops, sprints back and forth between the house and the fields, tending to the livestock and collecting eggs from the hens. 

(He’d never admit it, but his favorite chore has to be helping his mom peel potatoes. The praise he receives when he cuts one just right makes up for whatever scrapes and cuts he suffers himself.)

All the while, the boy chews on straw or toothpicks he’d snatched after that morning’s breakfast. He grinds a toothpick between his teeth as he hauls a pail of water towards where the livestock are kept, the fire country’s blazing sun beating down on his back. He chews on straw while assisting his mother in repairing torn clothing, all-the-while sewing new ones.

His mother, of course, simply sighs, exasperated with how quickly Genma developed the habit. “It must be genetic,” she would whisper to her husband, who’d shrug helplessly, already having accepted the inevitability of it. The man would simply grin down at his son, ruffle his hair, even as he bit down on his pipe.

He’s content, happy to spend his days with his mother and father, even if the chores make him tired. But his father with ruffle his hair and swing him up in the air when the work is done, raising him so high he made Genma feel as if he was feather-light. He makes sure to reward him for his hard work by taking him out to the small cloister of shops in their farming hamlet 

It is one of the happiest times of his life. His closest kept memories tend to exist in his time period— _the time when he was young, hadn’t yet seen war and betrayal, hadn’t yet watched everything burn before eyes, hadn’t yet known what it was like to climb in through the window of an empty apartment_ —His place. Paranoia too great to enter through the door—with blood on his hands, mere hours had gone by after taking someone’s life—warranted or no.

For one of his birthdays—his fourth? Maybe? He isn’t sure—his parents take him into Konoha. They wake him up later than usual, allowing the entire farm a rare day of rest, ushering him into his best clothes and rushing him out of the door. The walk is only an hour, but Genma is still so small, so young, so his father picks him up by his arms and settles him onto his shoulders. He marvels at the village’s gates, of the tall, thick walls circling the village proper, as well as the large set of gates that allow all sorts of peoples in and out of the village.

Genma shyly waves to one of the ninja guarding the gate, before hiding his face in his father's hair. He hears a small bout of laughter as he passes through, and he smiles, even if he doesn’t try to look at them again.

 _‘Ninja are nice.’_ he decides, with all the innocent certainty only a child can have. 

From there, Genma nearly sprains his neck from all the swiveling his head is doing, twisting and wriggling every which way in order to get a better look at the unfamiliar surroundings. He’s in awe of how much life there is here, back at home he’d normally see only upwards of fifteen people on a busy day. But here, in Konoha, there was so much going on from every angle that it was almost overwhelming. Pedestrians went along their business without care, no second glance at all the life bursting around them. His parents giggle at his awed expression, sharing a long look as they take him for a tour of the village, stopping at all of the “cooler” landmarks. 

They quickly find that Genma isn’t really interested in most of them, more focused on the town itself, each nook and cranny, peering into alleys from his father's shoulders, and gawking at the ninja that zip by. They’re eerily quiet whenever ninja approach, and make sure to shuffle out of the way.

Genma does not notice.

The family trickles into the main market district of Konoha, his mother stopping at one of the stalls. For a moment, Genma thinks she’s getting something like food or fabric, but she returns with a single straw hat, which she gently sets onto his head.

The material is flexible but scratchy, causing Genma to fiddle with it, even as his eyes brighten with joy. 

_‘Someday,’_ he thinks to himself, determined. _‘I want to live here.’_ He loves his parents’ farm, but now that he’s seen this veritable beehive of a village, he doesn’t think he can permanently part with it, falling for the winding streets and endless crowds.

(His first mistake, one of many.

The very beginning of a slow descent into existential horror. Genma, twenty-six and so, so alone, thinks back and regrets.)

Regardless, he’s happy. They’re happy.

All is right with the world.

Until, that is, nothing will ever be right again. His world fractures with one sentence, one admission.

“Mom? Dad? I want to be a ninja.”

He’d been preparing for this moment for weeks, sure in his decision. Nevertheless, he made sure to try extra hard in the past week’s chores, to be as polite as possible, and complain minimally about anything. When the ninja came into town, with packets of admission paperwork in tow, Genma had made sure to pick one up, hauling both the thick forms and his grocery bag home with him. 

He was sure, steadfast in his decision. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be responsible, and knowledgeable, about what he was getting himself into; using his best handwriting to fill out the paperwork beforehand, as well as ask his neighbors about what being in the Academy contained. They, of course, knew scarcely anything—it was a farming village, after all—but he did manage to find out that students enrolling in the Academy would be granted in-village housing, so as to make the trip easier if they were outside of the village, as well as some shaky, assorted bits of information about the curriculum.

It put a bit of a dent in his plans, but his want to explore more of Konoha, to immerse himself in the village and its culture, to be a part of it, was too strong for him to ignore. There was just something about the place was inherently alluring, why else would it be such a hub for human life? It was not just a ninja village, not just some mythical location that spat out individuals who could walk as silently as the wind and spout fire from their hands, it seemed to draw everyone around it in, drawing everything into its orbit with open arms. 

(The place, itself, was welcoming. However, the same couldn’t be said for some of its people.)

So, Genma would become a ninja. He’d taken a keen interest in the way they behaved, in the opportunities being a ninja would present to him, and he felt compelled to grab ahold of them and grip, to never let them go. It was what he’d been taught, after all. How many times had his father sat him down and emphasized the importance of strength and dedication, how many times has he shown these principles in the way he worked and lived, practically breathing loyalty and dedication with a satisfied ease?

Genma had always wanted to be like his dad. And, this way, he could. He loved his farm, knew it like the back of his hand (later, Genma would mourn this state of mind—for it was now apparent that he had known nothing) but it was time for him to carve his own path, create his own loyalties, he thought, to step into the great wide world and become someone his dad he could be proud.

That- that was why he’d been so cautious in presenting the fact that he was basically leaving to his parents. (Why did it matter that he was only seven? When did it matter? To him? Certainly not to Konoha, it’s founding principles on raising good weapons, basing childhoods on learning how to kill—so as not to be killed in turn.) Why he had carefully taken care of everything beforehand, used his best ink and his best handwriting on the forms as he studiously filled them out, took to his daily chores with fervor and dedication, made sure to behave. He wanted to show that he could be responsible, that he could do this, that they didn’t have to be sad or worried about him—that he would be fine on his own. 

All he needed now was a signature of parental approval and sponsorship—the final hurdle, and then he’d travel to the Academy sand hand his admission forms into them personally. From there, it seemed, would be smooth sailing. Out of the hundreds of ways his head spun that conversation, all the ways and things he could’ve done that would make them say “no”. 

He hadn’t expected this. (He should’ve. There were a lot of things he wished he’d noticed.)

“You what.” It wasn’t a question, but Genma rushed to explain, to advocate his side.

“I already did the forms, and I’ve done all my chores perfectly for a while! I-I know that I’ll be living away from home—in the city, but you don’t have to worry, I can handle myself. I’ll visit on the weekends, too!”

His mother peers at him with wide eyes, her silence louder than even a thousand words. It’s the first time he’s seen his father looking that angry, that red in the face, and he’s normally so calm, so collected, so easy-going.

Did he do something wrong?

His father finally speaks, brows furled and eyes glaring. “No. No, no, no—we won’t be having a ninja in the family. No, absolutely not.” He’s nearly snarling, and Genma’s world-view shatters.

What was wrong with ninja, and what was wrong with him wanting to be one? 

His father—as if he’d somehow heard Genma’s confusion—continues on, answering his questions. “I won’t allow my son to become a murderer, a vile killer who thinks only of the orders he’s given. Besides, what of the farm? We won’t live forever, Genma. We’ll die one day, and what’ll happen to the farm then? Did you ever think of that?” The man rants, hands clenching and unclenching.

“I- its… ninja aren’t murderers! They’re guards, protectors! They defend, not kill! They stop bad guys from hurting good people!” I will defend, not kill. 

“Oh, really? Then--” 

His mother grabs his father's arm, drawing is attention to her as she speaks. “Dear….that’s enough. He’s only seven, he doesn’t yet understand-”

“Oh, he will!” his father retorts, “He’ll understand when he’s got blood on his hands and no home to return to!”

Genma can only stutter out a confused, “I—what?” before his father rips his arm from his mother's grip, snatching up the pencil and the forms, signing on the bottom line with a flourish before tossing it at Genma. 

“You’ll get what you want, Genma. You turn that into one of those damned killers and on the first day, when you enter that class, know that there is no turning back. There will be nothing for you here!”

“Katsuo!”

There are tears pooling in his eyes, and he furiously scrubs them away. A vicious knotted rage builds within him, overpowering his sadness, his confusion, like the snap of a slingshot, stiff shoulders and bared teeth spilling toxic words and setting fire to a bridge already doused in alcohol.

“Fine, then! I’ll go! I’ll go become a ninja, the best, the most bravest ninja—and... and! If you don’t want me, then they will! You’ll see!”

Before anyone can say anything more, Genma is turning, running from the room, climbing the stairs of their humble home, messily signed forms tucked to his chest, and falling into his bed.

The sound of shouting from behind shaking walls prompts him to curl up further, head tucked under his duck-feather pillow.

He doesn’t want to be like his dad anymore.

* * *

On his first day of school, Genma wakes to an empty house—his parents having left to go trade a stock of their crops with a market to the east. He doesn’t know where exactly they’ll be going, or how long they’ll be gone, but he finds that he doesn’t really care. There’s a poisonous rage burning through his veins, a resentment bubbling up from his pores and coating his skin in a cloying slime.

It’s terrible, it’s soothing, it’s heartbreak and _hurt_ , and anger and everything his father wanted to prevent all wrapped in one tangled mess of emotion that claws at the base of his throat and leaves acid on his tongue. 

He’s angry as he packs his bags, even if he still picks up his straw hat—patchy and worn, having been picked and pulled at for a good few years—and sets it firmly on his head as he steps out the door.

He doesn’t look back at the farm, not once.

Genma wishes he did.

* * *

It’s been only a few scant weeks since he’d begun attending the academy, and he thinks he’s finally settled into the hectic life of being a citizen of Konoha. At first, he’d had trouble navigating the town, unused to the winding roads and street after street of shops and housing, as well as the lack of farm-typical chores. Establishing a new routine had been daunting, his body still used to waking up well before the bell for the academy rang for class, and so he’d had more time than he knew what to do with before school.

In the mornings, he’d struggle with breakfast (His mother was no longer there to make it for him, and now that he was on his own he had no one to teach him), quickly shuffle into some fresh clothing (his dirty laundry pile was steadily growing larger—he’d have to ask someone for tips on how to do laundry), and pace around his apartment for an hour, unsure of what to do. 

Eventually, he’d set his mind on doing little tasks that would set up his apartment, make it feel more like home, less cold and barren. He takes up the challenge with fervor, as he had found a homesickness taking hold of him, ruining what should have been his new, idyllic life in Konoha. There was something mood-dampening about coming home to an empty apartment, even if the entire day so far had been pleasant. 

So, with that, he takes it upon himself to start saving a little bit of money. Along with his first weekly stipend came a pamphlet meant to educate him on fiscal responsibility. It was invaluable to him, devouring the knowledge. He’d never had to do more with it than hand money to a shopkeeper, after all. He was new at this, and he didn’t want to mess it up.

(After all, there was no one to fall back on, now. He was on his own.)

With his newly bestowed allowance, Genma first bought a cookbook. Then, with the exception of the grocery money, stowed the rest of it away for his home-improvement pool. Though subsequent attempts at cooking were all failures (if they weren’t a “just add water!” type product, that is.) he felt like he was gaining invaluable experience in independence, leaving him ultimately satisfied with his progress. So, little by little, he bought new curtains for the windows, pleaded with shopkeepers for some spare wood to build with, stopped by the market (with a few detours; the streets really were confusing) and bought little trinkets and pots to decorate the place with. Though, he thinks with guilt, he couldn’t resist buying a few pieces of candy while he was in the market. In the mornings, the hour when he paces around before school, Genma starts to decorate the place, hanging the drapes and arranging the pottery—pushing knick-knacks onto newly made shelves.

He’d made sure that they were mounted firmly to the walls before he put anything on them, of course, but putting up the shelves certainly hadn’t won him any points with his neighbors, seeing as he’d put them up at five in the morning. The thinness of the walls hadn’t helped, either.

With the additional items he’d packed from home, his little space was quickly becoming easier to come home to. (Not that it could compare to his home on his parent’s farm, the taste of his mother’s pumpkin soup or the way the sun doused the fields in gold in the mornings, just as the morning rays filtered in through his window.)

Konoha, however, was not. Though Genma was still very much enamored and dedicated to the village itself—he’d taken an oath on the first day, after all. It may have been nothing to everyone else, but to him, it was a pledge. There was strength in dedication, he knew, and Genma never liked to break his promises—his impression of the village’s people had become somewhat… sour.

For reasons he didn’t fully understand, only knowing that they considered him an “outsider” and a “civilian” (spat at him from the streets and the academy, respectively), the people of Konoha seemed to look down on him. They’d scoff at him when he attempted to ask for directions, no matter how polite he tried to be, or mocked him when he tried to interact with the kids at the academy. (Not that he really wanted to befriend any of them, they were all stuck-up and annoying, in his opinion.)

The people of Konoha were so unlike the people he had known, back in his small farming village. There was less emphasis on being polite, and they were less welcoming to those they perceived as foreign.

It was lonely. 

He was beginning to become lonely.

That didn’t mean he didn’t have to restock his food supply, though. He was due for a visit to the grocers, as his latest cooking experiments had left him with an exhausted food supply and virtually no reward.

So, he trudged his way to the market, a sloppily written grocery list in hand. He wasn’t yet sure what should go on a grocery list, so he just decided to put down whatever items he was out of and the ingredients for the next recipe he’d attempt, and hope it’d be enough.

He tries not to wish that his mother was with him, because if she were, she’d surely laugh at his attempts, and teach him the proper way to make something. _‘She’d always been a great cook.’_ Genma thinks, a bit downtrodden, before shaking his head to clear the thought away. 

He purchases the basics, first: bread, eggs, cheese, and rice. Feeling a little bit nostalgic, he buys some squash, as well. He could remember vividly how his mother made his favorite dish, having leant over the counter to peer at her work too many times to count. Then, he gathers the other items on his list, milk, instant meals, and other assorted junk foods. All the while, Genma soaks in the atmosphere of the market. 

It was bustling with life that day, too. And for a moment, even though he was so small, still an outsider, he felt like he was an equal member of the crowd, peoples of all kinds gathered in one place to barter and sell and socialize. Genma opened his eyes, ducking under the legs of a passing pedestrian, ignoring how the man shakes his fist at him. 

He weaves his way through the crowds, unable to find straight passage out of the market district. 

It’s… kind of fun. People’s reactions were kind of funny, especially when he’d dart by them, nearly whacking them in the side with his grocery bag. Genma takes him time heading back to his apartment, dawdling just to soak in the atmosphere. It was hot out, but his face was shaded by his straw hat—the same his father had bought from the market. The same hat he’d kept on his head nearly twenty-four-seven since he’d arrived here. It’d always been a comfort to him, now even more so.

Maybe, because of the hat’s wide brim, that’s why he didn’t see the messenger hawk approaching.

Maybe, so focused on putting his feet in front of him and enjoying his peaceful walk home, that is why he didn’t see the hawk drop the scroll—only startling when it plops onto the ground near his feet.

The scroll is sealed with black taping and Genma—Genma knows what that means. Everyone does. That’s why everyone seems to shuffle away from him in that moment, hiding from his line of sight.

He doesn’t notice when his groceries fall out of his hands and spill onto the dirt road, thoroughly ruined.

* * *

Genma doesn’t head to his apartment that day, but desperately travels back to his family’s home. It takes hours, and sweat pours down his face and soaks his hair, even though the sky had burned past orange and yellow, beginning to cool for the evening hours to come. 

The boy— _seven, seven and already an orphan_ —slams open the front doors of his parents’ little house on the farm, nearly flying through the doorway. There’s a stitch in his side from the nearly nonstop exertion of his panicked, desperate trip home, and his vision is blurred—head spinning.

He feels like the floor will suddenly give out from under him, and that he’ll _fall fall fall_ and won’t get up, but Genma pushes forward, gasping as he looks wildly around the entrance hallway for any signs of life. He’s gripping the scroll in one hand, his crumpled grocery list clenched in the other as he begins to search the house from bottom to stop, in a disbelieving frenzy. He cries out for his parents all the while.

“Mom? Dad? Where are you?!”

 

He’s running, tears pouring over the line of his eyes and dripping down his cheeks, each drop searing his skin.

“Dad! I’m sorry! You were right, I’m sorry! Please come out! Please. Mom! Dad?! This isn’t—this isn’t funny anymore!”

Genma is forced to halt his search when he crashes into the kitchen table, lurching forward to crash onto the floor in a tangle of sweaty, exhausted limbs.

It hurts, bruises stinging sharply, but Genma doesn’t move or attempt to release the pressure his collapse has put on newly attained wounds. He lays there, a tangled mess of grief and stock, the scrolled that has ended his own fragile peace for the second time in nearly as many weeks having rolled across the room. His chest stutters and starts, hiccuping as he tries to rein in his tears. His hands curl into fists, nails digging into the skin of his palms as he croaks a final, heartbreaking plea into the floor.

“Please… _don’t leave me alone…!”_

The houses’ reply is silence. The clock on the wall does not tick, birds do not chirp, nothing can be heard except for the rush of sobs that wrack Genma’s body, even as he presses his face into the floor in an effort to muffle the noise.

He had received no answer—his parents don’t jump out to surprise him, apologies and worried tittering on their lips. Genma feels like he can’t breathe, lungs clicking as he gasped and wheezed. He’d overdone it, exhausted himself thoroughly before he broke down, and it felt like not enough and too much all at once, a dizzying, torturous, disgusting feeling that left him paralyzed, unable to do anything but cry into the floor.

His tears do, eventually, die down, lob, deep sobs winding down into muffled sniffles and faint shuddering. Genma looks up, eyes puffy and nose congested. 

His father had valued strength, but at that moment, Genma felt anything but strong. 

He eyes the scroll, lying falsely innocent near the wall. The boy pushes himself to his feet, gripping the table as he rights himself on shaking legs, nearly overwhelmed with exhaustion. Quickly, Genma snatches up the scroll, furiously tugging on the seal and swiftly unraveling it.

And there it is, in gaunt, solemn lettering.

“We are regretful to inform you of the deaths of Katsuo and Hitomi Shiranui…”

His eyes begin to water as he continues to read, eyes stuck to the page like an alcoholic to their drinks, continuing to drink more and more, even if they know they’ll soon regret it.

Bandits, Genma learns, are what killed them. Small mercies, considering it could’ve been an attack by another ninja village. (He was glad, glad that his parents weren’t liable to be used as fodder for more warfare, a political gimmick meant to stir up hate and military fervor) Their deaths, according to the scroll, had been swift, but messy. The thugs had obviously been unconcerned with the method beyond it granting them a quick kill. It details to him how they’d been robbed of all their profitable belongings, and how their cart _(hand-made, Genma remembers handing his father the hammer from his toolkit-)_ was destroyed, found as nothing more than a mess of gnarled wood and broken pieces.

It tells him, vividly, of the way their dead, lifeless bodies has simply been discarded, dumped to the side of the road and left to rot. There was nothing to be returned to him, other than bodies stripped of both possessions and life.

He was seven, academy attendee, a ninja in training, son of a farmer, and -

-an orphan.

_He didn’t even get to say goodbye._

* * *

He didn’t trudge back to his apartment that night, instead slipping into his parents’ bed as if trying to embed the remnants of their presences’ into his mind.

His life followed a similar pattern in the following weeks leading up to their funeral. Many people had dropped by the farm to give their condolences, only to be met with icy silence and a deadened stare. During that time, he only left the house once before the funeral—to inform the academy of his situation, to which he was graciously granted leave, in order to “take the proper time to grieve”. Other than that, Genma spent his days curled up in his parent's bed, cold and starting to smell more like him than the people who had occupied it for Genma’s entire life.

He only left the bed to weather the simpering guests and apathetic—but polite—neighbors, eat, and use the restroom; mind utterly adrift, clouded over with nothing to distract him from his mounting guilt and grief.

He wanted to cry—and, with guilt, he did—to scream and rage at the world for taking them from him, even though his parents didn’t want him anymore. Even though he wasn’t wanted, he wanted the world to pay for what it did—for taking them from him.

He really didn't have anyone to rely on, now. All that rage and guilt and the broken shards of his heart had nowhere to go, had no victim to be flung at, so they stayed lodged in his heart, festering and causing a poignantly raw ache to reverberate in his chest whenever he thought too long about any one thing.

Genma Shiranui attends his parent's wake, face frozen in his grief, like the world stopped spinning the moment he learned of his parents’ death, and for him, it really did. Everything stopped. 

And then—and then the world spins on, Genma and his little family thoroughly forgotten by the sands of time.

* * *

Genma went back to school, eventually, and with much difficulty. He wanted to no more than sleep the rest of his days away in his parent’s bed, clutching his frayed straw hat. He wanted to hide away and forget everything, didn’t want to press the “play” button on his paused life.

But the world would not let him, and so when a letter from the academy arrived his doorstep announcing the end of his granted leave, he reluctantly peeled himself from the covers, packed his things, and trekked back to his apartment. 

It was colder than he remembered, more empty than he’d thought it was. It was like looking at nothing, and it felt like nothing—he felt no attachment to anything in the place. Looking at unpainted walls and unfilled space only served to impress upon him a sense of being alone. Unable to staunch the unrestrained cruelty of the world, to mend it so that tragedy and would no longer exist.

Genma could barely talk to anyone, having scarcely even looked at his neighbors when they brought him well-wishes in the form of home-baked food and battered his brain kind words. On the farm, at least. The neighbors in his apartment wouldn’t even talk to him, eyes skipping over him like he was merely a part of the scenery.

The academy wasn’t any better, but at least people didn’t act like he didn’t exist.

At first, that is. A few of the children—who had obviously overheard the teachers talking about his situation—had approached him with well wishes and condolences, wholly apathetic to his plight but compelled by an obligation to say something.

 _“Sorry,”_ they would say. As if that fixed it, brought his parents back to life. _“I hope you feel better soon,”_ they’d say as if the weight that had settled on his shoulders would slide off so simply, would ward off the encroaching emptiness—tinged with mournful regret—left behind. As if his parents weren’t dead and never ever coming back-

_(He didn’t get to say sorry.)_

So, he sends them scattering back to where they came from with a well-placed glare and feels no remorse.

He’s become surly and hard to talk to, he knows, but he doesn’t really care.

His parents are dead.

They leave him alone after that, after he levels them an icy stare or ignores them one time too many. The teachers soon follow in their students’ lead and stop turning their (falsely) concerned gazes on him.

No one cares, and Genma realizes with sudden clarity that he hasn’t chewed on anything in weeks.

He’s just going through the motions, and it’s like his senses have been blanketed in static, fuzzy and buzzing in his ears and drowning out all sound. His vision is crystal clear, and yet everything looked dull, almost flaky, vision swimming if focuses on anything for too long.

He’s alone, and he wants to left alone. Everyone else understands this.

Except, that is, for their year’s biggest annoyance, who’s apparently intent upon hounding him until he pays the other kid proper attention.

That annoyance has a bowl haircut, a father who’s a career genin, and is named “Might Gai”. He’d watched the kid loudly struggle to be accepted into the academy, making a fool of himself but ultimately managing, somehow. 

Now an official academy student, Gai is known to the entire academy as their year’s biggest headache. He’s loud and stubborn, he dresses weird, and is constantly trying to get everyone involved in the crazy, cult-like taijutsu doctrine he’s subscribed to. He was also obsessed with Hatake Kakashi, a prodigy who was rumored to graduate and become a genin within the year—and could be seen harassing the prodigy and addressing him as his “rival”.

His shouts could be heard across the village, if rumors were to be believed. 

Every morning, as soon as he walked through the classroom door, Gai was there, demanding attention. Pestering him for spars (he was close to giving in, but he knew Gai would just kick his ass using only taijutsu, anyway), attempting to get him to talk, whether that be to tell Gai that he was bothering him, or to really try and get to know him. He attempted to cheer him up with motivational speeches, usually scattered with the phrase _“my dad said so!”_ as if his genin dad knew all.

He didn’t understand it, really. He wasn’t particularly interesting, just a civilian-born ninja wannabe but, he guesses that Gai could understand—seeing as he was commonly ridiculed because of his father’s genin status, as well as his lack of talent in ninjutsu and genjutsu. 

_‘On second thought,’_ Genma thinks, _‘I kind of feel bad for him.’_

So, with those thoughts in mind, when Gai is there first thing in the morning, shouting a greeting and telling him to do his best that day, Genma nods.

“Yeah, you too,” he says, simply.

Genma can nearly feel the sparkles flying off the kid as he gives him a thumbs up. Before the other boy can say anything more, though, the bell rings. He’s quick to sit down in his preferred seat, and their teacher clears his throat to quiet the chatter,

“Alright, alright. Settle down now.”

He sneaks a glance back at the weirdly dressed academy student. Gai is still smiling widely, looking almost euphoric. 

Genma feels himself break into a sweat, and looks firmly towards the board.

No one should look that happy just because they got a three-word response from someone. It was bad news, for sure.

Just what had he gotten himself into?

* * *

For a while, nothing happened. He cycled through the same routine day after day, going through the motions like living was white noise, there, but easily ignored. Genma got up early, as usual, puttered about his room until he left for the academy, blearily attended his classes and followed his training, and went home after school. He did the bare minimum, only what he had to—anything else felt like a weight too great to bear. Gai continued to pester him, though in a different way—it was less _“Spar with me and adopt my opinions about strength!”_ and more, _“Strength can only be found with growth! Let's be friends!”;_ Genma had no idea how a simple acknowledgment translates to him needing to be befriended, but whatever loops Gai’s mind had done to get that notion, it sure as hell wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Nevertheless, Gai’s push in the name of friendship usually manifested into preaching at him, shouting unintelligible encouragements at him during taijutsu practice and spars, as well as attempting to accost him on his way out of the academy. (Genma found himself becoming quite adept at cloaking genjustu very fast, due to that, even if he could only hold it for fifteen seconds at a time)

Other than that, Gai left him well enough alone—giving up as soon as it was obvious Genma had already fled the courtyard.

Until now, that is. All he’d done was sit down in his seat and then Gai had been in his face, and invitation falling out of his (loud, wider smiles than there had been almost two months ago— _before_ —when Gai’s every failed attempt at getting into the academy had given him a pained look, face gnarled with the strain.) mouth as he gave Genma a thumbs up.

“Genma! Hey, _youthfu_ l day we’re having, huh? I told my father all about you, and he said you sounded like a youthful young man, so he wants to meet you! You’re invited to dinner! It’s at six o’clock!” 

Genma freezes, looking at Gai like he’s crazy—because, they weren’t friends. Far from it, actually—and opens mouth to refuse.

 _“No way.”_ he wants to say, _“I can’t.”_ wants to close himself off from a kid who acts like he knows him, knows his pain and thinks it's simple to fix, _“Go away, and stop trying to force me to live out your ideals. This is fine—I’m fine.”_

What comes out is, “Uh- sure.”

Which is—what? Where had that even come from? That didn’t match up with what he wanted at _all!_ A part of him bristles and his stomach turns at the thought of actually having to go to break his routine in any fashion, but the rest of him is—resigned? Yeah, resigned. _‘And, going by the look on Gai’s face, it doesn’t seem like he’d let me back out now.’_ Genma thinks, giving a mental sigh. _‘Nothing for it, I guess.’_

Gai is crowing with delight, nearly shaking his shoulders as he thanks him with enthusiasm, but Genma isn’t really listening, or even aware of what his physical body was doing. He can see the way all of his classmates stare him, absolutely bewildered, but he can’t be bothered to really pay attention to any of them, even when Gai lets go of him and retreats back to his desk; the bell had rung and class was about to start. Their teacher had no time for dilly-dallying, so it was best to settle down quickly.

Class is its usual whirlwind after that, and in a flash, the final bell tolls, and the academy lets out for the day.

It’s four o’clock, and he has two hours until he’s due to have dinner with _Gai,_ of all people.

Gai, who turns out to be incredibly unhelpful, just strikes a pose and hands him a note with his address on it. Then, after a quick goodbye, makes his escape, disappearing behind the academy gates and disappearing—presumably to go train. Both Gai and his parent were known to be insane that way.

Genma stares back at the academy doors, turns around to stare at the school’s gates, and then directs his gaze to the sky. It’s a deep blue color, clouds few and far between. It’s a beautiful day.

The courtyard is silent.

Genma sighs.

* * *

Two hours passed frighteningly fast. He’d thought two hours would be enough time to mentally prepare himself to meet Gai’s dad (and wasn’t that nausea-inducing) but now that he was at their house, fist hovering just over the door, he felt woefully unprepared.

He had a very hard time picking out his outfit for the occasion, unsure about whether he should dress nice or simply show up in his usual attire. He spent most of those few hours simply getting ready, mind chanting ‘I don’t want to go’ on repeat, even as he scurried around the house, a litany of regret beating in his chest as dread bubbled up from within him. In the end, though, Genma decided that Gai and his dad likely wouldn’t care if he dressed casually, given their weird taste in clothing, and reluctantly left his apartment to stumble his way through Konoha proper. 

So, there he was, curled fingers paused just above the door, inches apart from touching the surface. _‘Urgh. I should’ve just stayed home.’_ Genma thinks, glowering at the door. He stays like that for a moment longer, hesitating, before a rod of frustration lances through him, and he manages to break through his concerns for long enough that he can force himself to knock.

He raps firmly on the door once, twice, and then for a third, and final, time. He can scarcely breathe as he waits for the door to open.

For a long moment, nothing happens, and the boy releases a long breath, exhaling his pent-up anxiety through his nose and allowing his hand to drop. Only, his hand is unable to make it all the way back to rest at his side before the door was flung open, a large man with a bushy mustache and an ugly jumpsuit abruptly swinging into view.

Genma, startled, flinches back slightly, eyes dilating as a burst of shock and adrenaline strike him. Gai’s dad didn’t even notice this, the man simply leaning forward to peer into Genma’s face, searching his face with a single-minded intensity, as if Gai’s dad was sizing him up, somehow.

 _‘He doesn’t want to fight me, right?’_ he can’t help but think, feeling off-kilter. Both Gai and his father were known to be very… intense (read: annoying) in both training habits and personality, and if Gai challenged him to spars then… maybe the senior might do the same.

If that happens, Genma is fully prepared to book his ass back to his apartment. Eternal genin or no, Might Dai was a fully grown man, with ninja training (however poorly utilized) to boot. There was no way he’d win. He’d die, for sure. Instead of a notice of challenge, or a request to fight him, Dai simply nods, seemingly satisfied with whatever he saw while investigating him. The man hums a little bit, and then opens his mouth, breaking the odd silence.

“Hello there!” Might Dai greets, and Genma can already feel his ears bleeding, “You must be Genma. My son has told me much about you and your youthful endeavors! Your strength is admirable, young man, please do come in! No need to be shy!” he cries ushering Genma inside the house before he could even blink.

“Uh…” he says in reply, his thoughtful commentary on the situation unheeded by Dai, who has pushed him through the front hallway and into a small kitchen just big enough for all the standard appliances and a table seating exactly four, but no more. Gai is there, seated at the table. Before he looks up and sees Genma, there’s a constipated look on his face as he stares down at the tablecloth. When Gai does look up to see who’s entered the room, his entire expression changes, morphing into one of sheer joy in moments.

“Genma, you came! I knew your youth would break through all obstacles…!” Gai shouts, nearly leaping to his feet. There are tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he shoots Genma an eye-searing smile.

Though, by Gai’s wording, he seems to imply that he didn’t expect Genma to show up, like he’d just leave them waiting for hours, until they were absolutely sure that he wasn’t going to come. (which could take all night, he’s sure.) and that was just… sad.

Genma might be reading into what could be Gai’s typical melodrama just a little too much, he might be completely over analyzing careless words. He’s probably just stating the obvious, as he was wont to do, and there’s no deeper meaning to it. However… what if there was? What if this exact scenario had occurred before, where he had waited and waited for someone would never come. He seemed like the type to end up enduring that kind of injustice, after all.

Genma may not particularly like Gai, or want to talk to anyone at all, for that matter, he may be cold and ignore others until they left him alone, but he- he wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t _do_ that. When Genma makes a promise, he keeps it, that’s what his father had taught him, after all.

_(A father who’s dead and gone and said he didn’t want him-)_

He wouldn’t go back on his word.

“Of course I did.” Genma states, voice carefully devoid from emotion, as if he were stating a fact. Which, to him, he was. If he said he was going to do something, he’d be damned if he didn’t. He levels Gai a pointed stare, hoping the boy got the double meaning- _“You can trust me. I don’t break promises, even though there’s no point in keeping them anymore.”_ as the only adult in the room guides him to his seat, gesturing for him to sit. He does, silently. Might Dai takes his own seat, directly across from him, with Gai on his right.

The spread of food in front of him is fairly traditional in nature, but Genma notes with fascination that almost all of it could be considered “health-nut” and “protein packed” foods, most of which are eaten by those who are either training for something or dieting.

It doesn’t look too terrible, though. He’d heard some stories about hardened ninja who subsisted off of junk and military rations from a few gossiping academy students, and so decided it was at least nutritious, though it looked edible enough.

There’s a momentary pause as the three of them settle into their seats, picking up their chopsticks and fidgeting to get comfortable. Genma could honestly say that he’d expected meeting the two for dinner to be much louder, much rowdier, than this. _‘Well,’_ Genma thinks, exasperated, _‘There’s still the entire dinner left to go.’_

As soon as Gai is properly situated, however, he immediately digs in, practically shoveling food into his mouth. Shovel, chew, repeat. The other boy does this a few more times, until he suddenly pauses, chewing thoughtfully on his food for a moment. Then, he suddenly turns to his father, shooting him a beaming thumbs up. “It’s good, dad!” Gai compliments, tone three octaves higher than it needs to be. Dai, of course, smiles at him, obviously glad to hear that his son likes what he made. Genma watches in morbid fascination as Dai does the same as his son had done moments before, gobbling down food as fast as he could eat it.

 _‘...I spoke too soon,’_ Genma thinks.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Might Dai says around his food, gesturing his chopsticks towards Genma’s plate and effectively snapping him out of his reverie. 

“Ah, uh, yeah,” Genma jolts, “thanks for the food.” 

Then, he, too, begins to work on his food, if reluctantly. He can’t trust their tastes in food, after all. He takes his time to chew his food, doing so at a normal pace, like a normal person. He actually wants to savor his food, instead of doing what the other two members of the dinner are doing—which is tearing at their food with all the fervor of a starved animal.

It feels a bit like he accidentally sat down at an eating competition. Which, he finds just a moment later, is basically true.

“Dad! I’ll be the first to finish, I swear it!” Gai cries, his declaration causes his father to grin at him, an obvious acceptance of the challenge.

“We will see about that, my son! Do not get too cocky, because I may just show you up!” The man retorts, upping his eating speed even further. 

“It will be the challenge of our youths!” 

_‘Challenge for your what now?’_ Genma thinks, confused by the weird lingo the pair use. It’s utterly incomprehensible.

Genma can barely even see their hands move as they fork food into their gullets at incredible speeds. It’s horrifying to watch and Genma just observes them blankly, serving everyone in attendance a deadpan stare as he astral projects himself into the next plane.

Then, a single thought bubbles up in his cloudy mind. _‘Won’t they puke from eating that much that fast?’_ his mind ponders, and suddenly, Genma is broken free from his horror-induced stupor.

He has to stop them. If they puke—if any one of them pukes from this, Genma is going to lose his mind.

So, deadpan maintained, Genma interrupts the eating competition to remind them of basic common sense.

He just hopes they’ll listen.

“You’ll get sick from eating that fast,” Genma points out, only half-way through his first serving.

The two pause in their competition, looking like that little fact had only just now occurred to them, and only at his prompting. They look at each other, blink, and then turn to him, their enthusiasm too great to be even slightly restrained.

Gai pipes up first, attempting to reassure him. “This is merely a battle of youth!” the boy says, fists clenching around his chopsticks, looking even more hyped up than he had before.

Might Dai nods, seriously. “We have done this kind of training many times before! Our bodies will not fail us!” 

Genma just stares at them both, nonplussed. _‘...training?’_

“Oh, I see!” Might Dai cries, “You are unfamiliar with this area of training and want to try it out yourself! It is no problem, we shall compete together in the next serving!”

Gai looks at his dad, his arms crossed as grins at the man. “Winner takes all!”

“Wait- no,” Genma starts, wondering where the hell he got that idea from, “No thanks. I was just sayin’ you might get sick.”

“Ah, then… it was merely concern?” Might Dai says, considering. Genma exhales slowly, panic receding for a moment.

He nods. He wants to put his head in his hands and close his eyes until he can look up and find them gone. 

“How… how _youthful!_ How splendid! What a wonderful young man you are!” Dai cries, physical tears sprouting from his tear ducts and falling out of his eyeballs, all in an effort to make his life hell. 

 

Gai is, of course, crying as well, looking as if he wants to get up from his seat and squeeze him until he literally suffocates and dies via-hug.

“I like you, Genma! You truly have the spirit of youth within you—you are bursting with it! Tell me about yourself, what sort of _youthful_ training do you pursue!”

“...The required training time at the academy.”

“Eh? But you have so much _youth_ in spars, there must be something you’re doing besides that!” Gai says.

Genma shrugs. “Not really.”

Might Dai chews thoughtfully on his food for a moment, swallowing heavily. “Then, what do you do after school? Surely you must do some sort of activity on the side.”

He doesn’t, not really. “I just go home.”

“Then, your youth is unrefined, untrained, begging to be tempered! You may train with us!”

“I’d rather not.”

“Don’t you wish to harness your body and become a shining example of youth and strength?!”

“Not really. It wouldn’t change anything.” _‘Shit.’_ he thinks, immediately after.

Dai blinks at him, bushy brows furrowing. “Hm?” the man questions.

“I-” Genma stops, jaws swinging for a moment before he decides to just keep his mouth shut.

“Is something wrong?” Dai says, concern shining in his eyes and they’re—too fatherly.

_‘Yes. Yes, something is wrong but—I don’t want to tell you about it. I can’t.’_

But the words spill out, unbidden, and mentally Genma recoils in horror and shame. “My parents are already dead. I wanted to become a ninja to protect but—they’re already dead. So, what’s the point, even?” he spits, face blank even though there are tears bubbling up in the corner of his eyes.

Gai and Dai share a glance at each other, before they both stood up from their seats, walked around the table to where Genma was seated—trying his damnedest not to cry, face contorted with the effort—and wrap their arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. It scrunches his worn straw hat, but Genma finds that he doesn’t really care.

He can tell they’re crying by how tears drip onto his shirt, and by the loud sobbing their quickly come to adopt, which only makes Genma start to cry, until the trio are a sobbing mess and there’s no hope of Genma gaining any sort of composure. It was humiliating and shameful and _he’d never be able to come back from this._ What would his dad think of him now?

“I’ve decided!” Dai says when the three of them have calmed down. Genma’s eyes are red-rimmed, his face splotchy, while both Gai and Dai’s faces had gone back to normal almost instantly.

Genma just looks at him, a question written in his eyes as he sips gingerly on a glass of water. Gai is seated on his other side, father and son having pulled up their chairs next to him.

“You’re welcome to dinner here anytime, young man! Your youth shines bright, but your soul requires rest, and thus I will do my best to assist you in your journey! As Gai’s friend and as a _youthful_ member of Konoha!”

Genma doesn’t rebuke him, doesn’t refuse, even though he knows that he’ll eventually be permanently forced to interact with their particular basis on the regular, and he’ll be strong-armed into their hellish training sessions, but all he says, despite this, is a quiet, “...Thanks.” in reply.

“You are always welcome, young Genma! I hope that in the future, you will find a home here!”

Gai nods fervently, showing his strong agreement for his father's words.

Genma pauses for a moment, before asking, “Ah, do you have a toothpick? I think there’s something stuck between my teeth.”

 

He goes home that night with the meager leftovers wrapped snug in his arms, puffy eyes, and a toothpick in his mouth, having forgotten to spit it out once he was done cleaning his teeth.

* * *

It’s the first time Genma has returned to his family’s farm in months. Since the funeral and his initial return to school, he’s found himself unable to approach his childhood home, something muddled and gnarled preventing him from doing more than thinking wistfully to himself, _‘I should go home for a few days’._ But, after dinner with Gai and his dad, and the subsequent training sessions and dinner attendance, Genma had found the ugly knot in his chest loosening, little by little; hesitations and the pangs from looking at children with their parents (whole, unharmed, happy) lessening.

Now Genma could finally find the resolve to visit his parent's graves. 

They were buried just behind the house, two simple tombstones erected above where they’d been buried. 

Genma, eight, sits at his parent's graves.

“Hi, mom. Hi dad.” he greets, having had no plan of action beyond simply “showing up”. He decides to disregard thinking it through, and let's whatever come to mind tumble from his mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—I’m not sure if you were right, dad, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I never got to say goodbye to you both. I miss you. I miss you both so much. It’s hard—without you. I can’t help but be jealous of those with living parents, now, so much so that I almost want to yell at them just for existing.

“But… I made a friend, I guess. Or, uh, he strong-armed me into befriending him. He’s weird. His name’s Gai, and his dad is… also weird, but really nice. I don’t know if it’s sheer stupidity or if he just ignores bad things in favor of whatever weird philosophies he worships. Gai is becoming a carbon copy of him. They both talk about _‘youth’_ and are only good at taijutsu, and they have nearly matching jumpsuits. But still… I feel like I’m in good hands. Even… even if you’ve left me behind… you don’t have to worry.” He’s crying, he knows, tears he’d been unable to shed at the funeral carving canyons into the form of his cheeks.

Yet, he feels at peace, somehow. Like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, and the hole in his chest that had widened over the past months had finally scabbed over—healing at last, even if it’d leave a scar behind.

He talks for a while after that, rambling about anything and everything, until his voice is rough from talking. Then, sufficiently exhausted, the boy pulls himself to his feet, sticking a stick of senbon into his mouth.

“I’ll be back soon, mom, dad,” he promises, and then prepares to make the journey back to Konoha.

* * *

Breathing, living, becomes easier after that initial visit to his parent’s graves. It’s like uneven, wheezing breaths even out into something calmer, more composed, and the rattling that had made his chest hurt for so long had finally begun to heal, clicking something jagged and dislocated back into place.

The uneven wounds still pull at him and ache almost violently, but it’s less raw, and much easier to power through; like the final stretch before coming up for air, breaking through the waters trappings, or finishing up a training session with Gai. The loss that previously left his heart gaping and festering begins to scab over, and with that, the days begin to pass faster, starting off as a so walk, until Genma isn’t sure how the week passed so fast. He spends his academy days training his ninja skills, filling his apartment with trinkets and hand-made decor, and having dinner with Gai at exactly six o’clock in the evening.

Every couple of weeks, Genma leaves his apartment early in the morning, just a mere half hour after he is woken up by his alarm clock, to make the trek to his parent’s farmhouse. It’s a calming ritual, almost therapeutic to him, tending to his empty, dust-riddled childhood home. He makes sure that all the dust coating the place was wiped away, he dutifully checks the linens for moth holes, as well as makes sure that bandits haven’t ransacked the place while he was gone. 

The animals had been sold off shortly after his parents died, as there was no way Genma would be able to take care of them or hire the proper help, even though he had the money for it. The crops hadn’t been tended to in nearly a year, fields dead and soil untilled. Weeds had sprung up from the remains, giving the expanse of farmland an abandoned, dilapidated look, despite the fact the farm wasn’t _technically_ uninhabited. Nevertheless, Genma did what he could, polishing the equipment, or even just laying some wildflowers by his parent's graves and washing the sheets.

He took time during his visit to train in private, as well. It was mostly focused on chakra control and meditation to improve focus, but sometimes he’d practice taijutsu or ninjutsu on rolls of hay and out in the fields. Training with the Might’s had taught him the importance of concentration, and how true improvement (or _“youth”_ ) couldn’t be attained through effort that was half-assed. Genma was inclined to agree with that, though there would have been no denying it either way, Gai’s improvement was based solely on this principle, and it’d be foolish to deny Gai’s progress in his specialty—taijutsu, obviously.

(Genma had tried to teach Gai the masking technique he’d used to avoid the loud academy student all those weeks ago, but to that day Gai had been unable to perform it successfully.)

So, with all the noise that came with living in such an active, lively area as Konoha gone, replaced only with the cheerful quiet of the countryside, Genma would sit on the porch, take a deep breath, and attempt to do as his teachers had taught him. He cleared his head first, clearing lily-pad like thoughts away to reveal the clear, still waters ponder waters underneath. Then, he reached into the water, arm sinking all the way to the bottom floor of the pool, and grasped firmly onto—what he supposed was—his chakra.

It tingled, he found, and a heavy, chilled calm washed over his senses, like the pond water had been drained directly into his veins. Carefully, trying his best to keep his head clear and maintain the calm headspace, the feeling of his chakra flowing within him, Genma would reach a hand up and gently stick a leaf to his forehead, redirecting his chakra up to his forehead in hopes of trying to hold it with just his chakra. He mastered one, then two, then three, all the way up to five leaves in different places on his body until he’d feel woozy from chakra exhaustion. Apparently, Genma had great accuracy but lower than average chakric reserves.

Then, war had broken out—one a long time coming—and the academy curriculum was altered drastically. Genma was swamped with work and heightening standards, as he was forced to learn quicker, hit harder, knew where to cut to get a quick kill before he’s mastered long division, and—the graduation age is lowered to ten years old rather than twelve.

 _‘Are they trying to kill us?’_ was his first thought. Not _especially,_ he later learned, but they were soldiers to the state first, and war was where soldiers were bound to go to, even if they were ten and most had scarcely left Konoha’s walls. 

During this time, he finds himself becoming fast friends with a kid named Namiashi Raidou. He’s quiet, like him, and very down to earth, which is refreshing for Genma, who’s had to deal with Gai’s particular brand of passionate idealism and the rest of his year’s groups of eccentrics for the better part of two years. They train together a few times a week and sometimes hang out after school. Their conversations are pleasant and not headache-inducing, but Genma finds that Raidou has a tendency to not even attempt small-talk, diving right in and wanting to debate life’s most nebulous questions.

“We’re nine,” he finds himself saying, when Raidou gets too intense and his brain’s wheels start running a mile a minute.

Regardless of his friend’s odd tendencies, and the fact they’re quickly thrown nose deep into a very bloody war, it doesn’t really feel like it. It’s peaceful.

Soon enough, though, Genma is ten. His year is graduating from the academy. He passes the test with flying colors, of course, and is summarily sorted into a genin team.

He’s paired with Gai (because of _course_ he is) and Ebisu, an arrogant kid with a penchant towards lecturing. Genma finds him kind of annoying to be around, but he's not too bad, altogether. (Except for when he goes on and on about “fake citizens” and how they’re “probably enemy ninja in disguise” and that—that is aggravating.) Their sensei is nicer than the ones back at the academy, who tended to be harsh in demeanor, personalities gruff and critical of the student’s every move, but Genma finds that he has no interest in the man, though Gai seems to be trying to get them to be more like a “team”. 

They don’t grow close with their teacher, because he dies and the curtain revealing the hellish visage of war is pulled back, revealed to him a thousand tiny details Genma _wishes_ he could forget.

Sometimes, Genma finds himself chewing on more than one stick of senbon, habit intensifying after he’d taken to chewing on metal rather than toothpicks. He tends to grind his teeth on this, rolling them with his tongue. He’s stabbed himself with them a couple times before, but he’s grown used to the sharp ends and had managed to avoid any injuries for months.

“Genma! Let us engage in a challenge of _youth!“_ Gai bellows one lazy afternoon. Their sensei is away on a mission, and because there’s no one to act as a substitute instructor (most ninja personnel participating in the war efforts around the clock), they’ve been given the day off to do what the higher-ups like to call “self-guided training” but the genin themselves call “slacking off”. 

It’s quite sunny that day, so they’re lounging around in training ground fourteen, where their team usually the time to train. Ebisu is seated on a blanket he’d brought with him, books spread out around him. He’s got his nose in some theoretical textbook or another, the ones with words that make Genma’s head spin, only moving to flip a page or push up his glasses—totally engrossed in his reading.

He’s almost tempted to reach out and flick him in the forehead, if only to see Ebisu’s startled face as his focus bubble pops so suddenly. He manages to refrain from doing so, but only because he’s quite content to not move an inch for at least the next two hours. 

Genma, himself, was sprawled out at the base of a sturdy tree, leaning his weight into it. His hands are resting in his lap and his legs are stretched out, resting on Ebisu’s blanket. From afar, it looks a bit like they’re having a picnic together, even though it’s almost the opposite. Regardless, he’s thoroughly enjoying that day’s breeze as he relaxes under the oak’s large, shaded canopy; the only light passes through scattered and speckled.

Gai is the antithesis to their peaceful, relaxed scene, training fiercely out in the open, unable to sit still and relax when he could be using his time to train his body just a bit more. 

It was peaceful, a calm in the eye of a storm, and Genma felt it was safe enough to close his eyes, gnaw on his senbon, and tune out the worries of the world for a little while.

It seemed Gai had other plans, though.

“No,” Genma states, a reflexive denial. He pauses for a moment and then continues to speak, “...what kind of a challenge? And don't say ‘youth’, both of us know how vague that is.”

Gai, undeterred, just powers on pitching his idea.

“In an effort to hone the muscles that allow us to smile, it would be a competition using only our mouths! Our spit! A youthful spitting competition! We would use that tree as the target!” Gai yells, pointing to a nearby tree facing the opposite direction from the group. 

Ebisu peers up from his book for only a moment, scowls, and goes back to reading, pushing the book even closer to his face than before.

Genma stares at Gai for a moment, deadpan, and scoffs. “I’d rather spit at you than the tree. I’m not moving.”

Gai, a mental brick wall, just continues to wheedle and nag at him. Genma tries to ignore him, he really does, but frustration rises up and explodes, a hot curl of irritation lashing through him. He, like Gai says he wanted him to do, spits the senbon in his mouth, but not at a tree. Instead, his aim is on Gai, or just to the right of him. The thing sails past him, missing the enthusiastic genin by a hair, before clattering to the ground just behind him.

With Gai frozen in place, Genma cuts through the silence. “There. You happy now?”

He’d hoped that’d be the end of it, but he’d never been so wrong. It only seemed to make Gai even more excited, bursting with excitement as he nearly begged him to do it again, only to directly aim for him the next time. Genma, of course, refuses, regretting letting his anger get ahold of him, but he doesn’t shoot a considering glance towards the senbon he’d spat, glinting and glittering in the grass.

* * *

Genma’s newest form of training is that of spitting his senbon at things. This way, he always had a weapon on him, and he can slash the time needed to strike down to basically nothing. Precious seconds are wasted when a ninja has to reach down and retrieve their weapon, and the longer it takes, the more likely one is to die.

Poor reaction times usually correlate with a short life, as they say. Ninja battles are much like duels—whoever strikes first usually wins.

He spends time honing this skill in training ground twenty-three, which has a set of marked targets bolted into the ground. They’re mainly used for practicing accuracy, perfect for Genma’s needs. So, as soon as Genma is situated in front of the targets, he gets to work, equipped with several newly attained packages of senbon.

He sticks one into his mouth, aims, and spits.

It goes straight for a moment, but falls short before even reaching the target. He frowns and reaches into his bag, pulling out another stick, before popping it into his mouth.

He does it again and again, improving his control as he does so, strikes going further more accurately. He isn’t sure about the force of the technique, but he figures that if he can’t get the senbon to reach the enemy then what’s the point of power? It’s slow going, progress occurring over long weeks, and he always makes a mess of his supplies, but he keeps at it. And after a little while and increasing familiarity with the wind-up and spit motion, begins to experiment with it.

The hard work is worth it, though, because his efforts don’t go unnoticed. Gai has taken to loudly praising his when they train together, and Ebisu asks to record his technique for later use, or just for storage.

(Later, Ebisu will whisper to him his goals and dreams, telling him that he wants to publish a book detailing new and original techniques, along with alternative methods of performing them. It’s not flashy, or glorious, but Genma thinks it’s a good dream.

Not that he had really asked to know that, though.)

One day, after Genma is forced to stop training and rest, the ache in his cheeks causes his face to throb, his jounin-sensei approaches him. Genma shoots the man a questioning glance as the adult grows closer, but the man only clasps a hand on his shoulder since he couldn’t ruffle his hair; covered as it was by the way he wore his hitai-ate and his large straw-hat, which was nearly in tatters, but worn every day.

“Good work, Genma-kun,” the man says, a look of pride in his eyes.

Genma doesn’t know the man that well, doesn’t care to, and none of them really talk outside of mandatory training sessions or missions, but it warms something small and cold in his heart. Pride blooms in his chest, even as he tips his hat to cover his face.

* * *

The flimsy peace he had managed to cling to for a so long is finally dashed, as the war’s unforgiving claws sink into his life and begin to rip away those important to him one-by-one.

The first to go is his jounin-sensei. Regardless of his lukewarm feelings towards the man, who he thinks, later in life, that he could’ve come to think of as a fatherly figure, seeing him die in front of him gives him nightmares for weeks after.

They’d been ambushed, the Iwa-nin falling out of the trees around them. He had no idea how they’d gotten that close to Konoha, as they were only out on a supply-run mission, but Genma had no time to think before they were on them, weapons out and ready to kill him before he could blink.

Genma had managed to jump back before biting wire could trap and slice at him, but his sensei could not.

He and his teammates watched with shocked horror as the wire sliced through the man’s jugular, strangling him all the while. The man was gone within 30 seconds desperate-shocked- _angry_ expression drooping as his body fell limp—like a puppet with its strings cut. His breath was stolen from his lungs, but desperation—the very same that had lit his sensei’s eyes only moments ago—flared within him, and then he was moving, dashing forward and spitting—to no effect. It didn’t go far enough, didn’t hit with enough force. It was nothing—Genma’s attacks were _nothing._

He didn’t mean to kill him, at least—that’s what he thinks. He was just… trying to escape. The enemy ninja ( _can’t remember the face, only the red red red that clouded his vision as he spat and killed-)_ were winning, had crushed his hat and riddled it with one hole too many, and Genma could see the way Ebisu was backed into a corner, the way Gai was tiring. Panic and the sick stench of fear clawed at him, blurring his vision and making him hyper-aware of every sensation, even as his vision tunneled.

Gai gave a cry of pain as one of the ninja sliced his arm with a kunai, and Genma peered to the side, eyes catching on the raw gash slicing up his arms—of the rust that poured out of it and stained the boy’s skin.

Genma was about to book it towards him, but there was an enemy nin in the way, rushing towards him. The man was _too close, too close-!_ and Genma couldn’t think beyond roaring panic and stormy concern. So, he spat. Wound up muscles in his cheeks and placed his tongue around the senbon in his mouth, infusing it with just a hint of chakra, and let it go. 

The senbon found its target a little too well. It shot off, fast as lightning, and sunk into the enemy’s skull, right between the eyes—eyes which had widened in horror before the senbon pierced the ban’s skull and took him out. Red bloomed like a flower around the area, and Genma wanted to scream as the Iwa-nin dropped in the same way his sensei had. 

_(He didn’t want to think of them as human, didn’t want to see that they could all die the same way, that he had done what they’d done to his sensei-)_

Regardless, Genma took that moment to bolt, stepping around a quickly cooling corpse to rush to Gai’s side. Backup soon arrives, and Genma watches blankly as the remaining Iwa-nin are slaughtered. 

The adults bundle their jounin-sensei’s corpse up, prayers and condolences on solemn lips, and drag the three of them home for the funeral.

A name is etched into a great big stone.

* * *

They’re back-to-back, exhausted and bloodied when Might Dai arrives on the scene.

Might Dai dies too, holding the line with a flashy (powerful) diversion while true help lags behind. 

Dai saves them, but both Genma and Gai lose another father figure that day.

* * *

Their funerals are _agony._ Looking at stone graves while Gai cries and cries, lost to his grief even though his father had told him to be _strong._ (Who could be strong at a time like this? Who could be strong in the face of this kind of loss, of having everyone stolen from them? Who?) Genma’s breath is rotted in his lungs, too warm and stagnant as it rattles around inside of him. He forces himself to exhale.

A hole opens up under his feet, and even though Gai stands still as a statue for the funeral, he feels like he’s falling, like he’ll end up following everyone he’s lost down to hell, like the war has him by the ankles and is threatening to take _him,_ too. Everything is washed out, color bled from the world the way his sensei’s blood was, and Genma can’t get peace back.

It won’t come back, the world will be shrouded in pain and static forever, it seems. 

When did Konoha get so _dark?_

* * *

It’s another off day, a phenomenon which is becoming increasingly rare, and most of their years active (not _dead)_ genin are gathered together in a local restaurant known to be shinobi-friendly, having to retreat inside due to the threat of rain, the sky sullen and inflamed, casting a the village in dark greys and dreary blues.

For ninja, restaurants had to be investigated beforehand, lest they end up angering shop owners with their presence. This was due to the fact that some restaurants tended to have a bias against ninja because of their tendencies bring violence, mayhem, and property damage with them wherever they went.

However, the manager of that particular restaurant had a retired shinobi in the family, so respect was given freely, and any nicks in the walls from stray kunai and shuriken were merely waved off with an indulgent smile and a “can I take your order?”

Normal children, those who had managed to avoid war and death and the feeling of blood on their hands, would talk of mundane things, like the latest cool trinket, a newly blossoming crush, or the latest fashion trend. But for them—who’d been so tainted by war that violence and blood fused itself into their chakra pathways and left them ruined and twitchy, they’d taken to discussing their kills with faintly trembling hands.

Kurenai is nearly on the verge of tears, the others in similar states of emotional upheaval as their food sits nearly untouched, only picked at. “She vomited,” Kurenai says, a dull sheen to her eyes, “I watched as she vomited and died, caught in my illusions. I wanted to die, too, to be honest.”

They all nod, and Asuma pats her on the shoulder.

It’s Raidou who speaks up next, managing to take a bite from his plate. “It wasn’t anything special, he didn’t put up a fight or anything. I just—I took my kunai and shoved it through his throat. He was gone in a second. I know that all humans die, and that the method doesn’t matter, but doing the killing… wasn’t what I expected.”

“I’m still having nightmares,” Hayate says, hands clenched around his sword.

“Me too,” Asuma agrees, sighing. “I just can’t seem to get it out of my head.”

Genma takes a sweeping glance around the restaurant and notes with a dull acceptance that the civilian customers around them are quickly clearing out of the place, even though it’d begun to pour heavily. He misses his hat.

“It was weird. Terrible—but weird. I didn’t mean to kill the guy, but he was in the way and it just sorta… happened. He made the same expression Yoshida-sensei did when they killed him. It sucked.” if they’re all going to confess, Genma might as well do it, too.

Raidou’s expression shifts to one of sympathy. “I heard about that. I’m sorry for your loss.“ he says in a low voice, “It must have been hard to watch.”

His face twists. “I didn’t know him all that well. I think, though, that I could’ve.”

Gai nods, “Our efforts weren’t enough to save him… but never again will I let our youth wink out!” 

Genma shrugs, “I’ll leave it to you then, Gai.”

Gai nods again, with more fervor this time. “I won’t let you down, not with the power of youth on my side!”

Everyone ignores him, but turn to speak of lighter topics.

They’ve all recently turned eleven, but none of them have the energy to celebrate.

* * *

The world is burning. Konoha is on fire, and countless are being killed or are already dead. The losses are innumerable, disregarding the sheer amount of physical damage dealt to the village. A giant, flaming fox demon terrorizes the village, slaughtering innocents by the dozens, while his Hokage is being attacked—Minato is being attacked. The two enemies cannot be dealt with by spitting his senbon, no matter how deadly accurate his aim is, something like that, even if poisoned, wouldn’t be enough—would never be enough.

* * *

By the next morning, Genma is attending another funeral, and by the end of the week, he’s visiting another grave.

The town is in ruins, and the world has once again lost its color. All that’s left is a little blond newborn with horror and ruin in its gut and _so many funerals_ to attend.

* * *

“No, not like that.” Genma scolds, showing the Inuzuka once again how to spit it. The boy has a toothpick in his mouth since he’d previously lacerated his tongue with senbon. 

The tokubetsu jounin makes a show of his technique, making sure that the boys could see his every move before launching the thing. It sinks into the target—a battered tree—with ease.

“Now you try,” he motions, and the three genin under his tutelage promptly try again. Genma had supplied them with ten senbon each, any more and they’d have to supply themselves.

He wasn’t sure why Naruto Uzumaki, Sasuke Uchiha, and Inuzuka Kiba were so interested in senbon spitting, of all things, but he didn’t mind teaching them how to do it. It was nice, seeing such bright eyes and sunny grins. They were as young as he’d been during the war, but their dispositions were so different. Something about the way they talked and the way they moved, the way they fought—was so innocent and naive. The blood that weighed down seasoned ninja, those who had survived the carnage and destructive typhoon of grief, had yet to touch them. They didn’t yet have bad days where their only thoughts were of blood on their hands and the weights on their shoulders—weren’t yet haunted by nightmares of horror and aching regret.

For the Uzumaki and Inuzuka, that was.

The Uchiha looked haunted, hardened grief having settled behind his eyes. The weight pressed down on young _(only twelve, not even a teenager yet-)_ shoulders, making the boy look weary, even with the haughty look on his face.

There was grief carved into his bones, hatred in the pursed lines of his lips, misery weaved into his skin, effects of horror and blood that couldn’t be hidden, no matter how careless one acted or how they postured. Even if someone stood and spoke with all the pomp of someone who’d never been through a day of hard work, his body would betray his disposition.

He had to wonder if anyone was going to sit this kid down and try to talk him through it, though, going by the looks of it, the kid had stewed in his grief and trauma for far too long, who knows if he was willing to open up—or if that would just cause him to lash out, viciously. That had potentially career-ending effects, and Genma didn’t want to touch that with a thirty-foot-pole. 

It wasn’t his place, anyway, Hatake was in charge of his genin’s mental well-being.

For now, he’d just settle for teaching the kid another way to kill. That might do something for him, possibly. Maybe. 

(It wouldn't. It had kept him alive, but it hadn’t exactly made him _feel_ alive.)

He’s brought out of his stupor by the sound of jealous groans, and he looks up from where he’d hyperfocused on a blade of grass to the source of the noise. Uzumaki is yelling, hands in his hair and he shouts at the Uchiha, all loud assurance and challenge. 

The Uchiha, of course, jeers at him, before ignoring him altogether.

Genma, an eyebrow raised, glances towards the target. There was only one senbon embedded in the tree—obviously Sasuke’s. The other two were scattered at the base of the tree’s trunk. 

As the Inuzuka lunges forward, aiming for the Uchiha, Genma intervenes, pulling the boy back before he can even touch the other boy. “All right, that’s enough, you too. No need to attack him for gettin’ it faster. Try again.”

They groan, and the Uzumaki glares at Sasuke, his expression stormy and sullen, before getting back to work, yelling that “he’d surpass Sasuke in a moment, just watch!”. 

Genma sighs. He glances at Sasuke, who looks like he’d rather Naruto just drop dead at his feet than watch him do anything, before stepping forward.

Carefully, making sure Sasuke can see his hand the whole time, he reaches forward, towards the genin, and pats him on the shoulder. “Good work, Sasuke,” Genma states, in much the same way Yoshida-sensei had done for him, so many years ago.

It’s not much, and Sasuke shrugs his shoulder off and scoffs, but Genma thinks it’s the least he can do. He was getting the technique faster than Genma had—and he’d made the thing up!—so there was no reason _not_ to praise him.

He likes to think that the Uchiha’s eyes had lightened, but it could’ve just been the light.

It was quite sunny that day, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck canon, actually!
> 
> I UH. I ALMOST WROTE MYSELF INTO GENMA/GAI WHILE WRITING THIS
> 
> I realize that I don’t know much about how a farmer in the naruto’verse would live their lives…. 
> 
> Yeesh.
> 
> I tried my best tho. However, since I use these fics as a way to grow my understanding/headcanons/characterizations of a character and their backstory, I’ll have to tweak my ideas of it later. Not abandoning farm boy!Genma tho. Ever. That’s too good. Genma is a farm boy and none of you can tell me otherwise.
> 
> Let me know what you thought of the fic if you want! If you want to see more of me or get updates on my writing, my tumblr is [ekourege.](https://ekourege.tumblr.com/) I do a lot of yammering about my fics. (Not so much… headcanons or elements of it, though. More about scheduling and vague, maniacal shitposting about how I am going to break my readers emotionally with whatever event I’ve cooked up.)


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